Saturday, November 29, 2008

*Buen Provecho: Eat Well*

It’s Thanksgiving, so your mind is probably on which silverware to use, who is going to win the game, and whether or not you have enough flour for the thrice rising rolls and your grandmother’s pumpkin clove pie. After all, what is Thanksgiving about, except for food? You can trace ancestors back to the Mayflower, and say ‘’I’m thankful for…’’ all you want, but in the end, it’s all based around the table. Today the exchange students are recreating our own little Thanksgiving feast, which, if I’m not mistaken, will have all the edible necessities, plus a few innovations. I’m thinking mango pie. In memory of this great holiday, I’m going to give you a different perspective on food: the Cruceño viewpoint, menu, and general flavors I’ve come to associate with Santa Cruz.
Let’s begin with breakfast. In my home, it’s always the same. My mother has papaya with puffed quinoa (say keen-wa. It’s a native grain, popular in soups, salads, or puffed with sweetening.) It’s all drizzled over in honey. My father was quite the advocate for salteñas, but for health reasons has had to give them up. Poor man. Salteñas are delicious. They’re similar to chicken or beef pot pies, but are cooked in a crescent shaped pastry crust. My brother goes for Corn Flakes, but mixes Nestle chocolate mix into the milk. I’ll eat just about anything, but prefer some fresh fruit with French bread or a cheese empanada. Empanadas are similar to salteñas, but are more typically filled with cheese, corn, or meat. ‘’Pizza’’ empanadas have a tomato sauce, cheese, meat, and spice filling. Only once have I had eggs for breakfast, and my family laughs at me when I make pancakes. As a general rule, breakfast is light, simple, and short.
Lunch, in comparison, is the big meal of the day. Papi comes home from work, Eduardo and I are picked up from school, and the whole family gathers around the table for our noon meal. There is always a variety of food for lunch, but I can almost always predict the meal. It’s simple: there will always be rice, some kind of meat, usually a salad, and another form of carbohydrates. In fact, it’s not unusual to have rice, pasta, and yuca (a fibrous root that often takes the place of potatoes) in the same meal. When I first arrived, most of the food struck me as bland, but overly salted. There is never pepper or hot sauce on the table, but always plenty of salt. It took a very long time to get used to seasoning a salad with olive oil and salt. In the last few weeks I’ve grown accustomed to the salt, and even enjoy it. Because of the heat, I’m always a bit…dewy with sweat, so the salt is good to balance out my insides. Thankfully, lunch is almost always accompanied with fresh fruit juice.
Around five o’clock, we have tea. This is not a family affair, nor absolutely necessary, but it’s very common all the same. We break out the traditional empanadas, cuñapes (almost like a cheese roll, but better,) and the ever present French bread. I’m not sure if the love of pan Frances is a Bolivian thing, or just my family. My parents are big instant coffee drinkers, though my mom is quick to interchange that with Trimate: a tea made of chamomile, coca, and anis. It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to me, the drinking of hot beverages when it’s ninety degrees out, but it works for them. When with my grandmother, I’ll take a hot chocolate when they take their coffees, and it’s not quite as horrible as it sounds.
Dinner is usually an informal occasion. You pretty much show up when you want to, eat what you want to, and then clear your place. It’s usually very light: rice with a salad for example, though we have gone out for burgers or fried chicken.
As you can see, the diet is pretty monotonous. I love it, but there is little day to day variety. Still, food is such a broad topic, I’m sure you’re going to see more entries on it. Really, I usually adore every bite, and hope you can taste a little just in my words.

Sunday, November 23, 2008

Ramble

Hi Ya'll,
Here's to you: I'm trying to write my weekly entry (little late--sorry!!!) and am finding it incredibly difficult. To put off the inevitable, I'm just writing now, and hoping that by rambling I'll awaken that silly English side of me. And it's kinda not working. Crapola. I realized what a wall I've hit when I tried to write the word ''colonization'' but it came out ''conolization.'' I used spell check to get the correct form, then for the next minute or two, stared at it and said it over and over, because honest-to-goodness, I had forgotten how to say it. Daaang...
Hmm...que más?
Oh, how about this:
I've been in Bolivia for three months today!!! Woo-hoo!!! And kind of sad in the same breath, because that means I have only 8 months left, más or menos. What's especially uncanny, is that in prep for Bolivia, especially at Shussout, I heard that Thanksgiving was the hardest time for exchangers, and now I'm living it and...
it's not that hard. Maybe it's just because it's not actually Thanksgiving yet, but I'm not feeling the sickening waves of homesickness and utter wretchedness that I'd heard about. I love and miss you all, but I'm not wallowing in grief. Sorry.
Speaking of Thanksgiving, what in the world am I going to do with it? I'm destined for an evening at my YEO's house with a bunch of other (and probably moody) exchangers. They're not that homesick either, I'm a-thinking, but Thanksgiving in S.C. is pretty disappointing for quite a few of us. Long story short: Sarah (http://www.boliviablog.braveblog.com) went to Hades and back (oh, just finished The Odyessey!) to get a group of us exchangers on a rough and dirty tour of the Noel-Kempff National Park, part of the Amazon. We were set to leave today and jungle-ize for 8 days (including travel time.) Everything was set: the tour guides, the chaperone, Rotary support...from some Rotarians. Last week we went to Rotary to present the almost-watertight plan, and after a lot of explaning, got some support and some acceptance. Then Sarah went to our YEO and somewhere in the conversation, despite our precautions, parental permission, and already having made the first payment, our YEO vetoed the whole trip, using Thanksgiving as an excuse. Yeah, she didn't want us to miss our Thanksgiving to the Amazon. Needless to say, the group as a whole had some pretty bad energy after that. I probably took it the best, being young and prone to flexibility, ha ha, or maybe just a little more scared of getting Malaria than everyone else. Still, the thought of sitting down to an amiable meal with the woman who took away the adventurer's dream is pretty hard to swallow. So happy Thanksgiving! I'm still looking forward to cooking and eating and talking in English, but I'm also very curious to see how it's going to play out.
Change of subjects:
Last night I went to Espiritu Santo's promocion graduacion party. Holy cow, and what a prom it was. You know, I was wondering what it'd be like to miss my Junior Prom, but I think this sufficed. I got an official invitation, wore a dress, the whole enchilada. And it was pretty dang fun. I really loved the Desfila. I don't know the word in English. It's when all of the seniors walk down this long read carpet. Their names are announced and everyone takes pictures and applaudes. Really, it was cool. And the decorations and gowns and hairstyles of the room and girls within were incredible. No offense, SHS, but Espiritu Santo's gotcha beat. Ooh, tangent on dresses: Since I have an extra $320 laying around from my lack of Amazon trip (merg.) should I get a dress made? Chelan and Brodie got their dresses handmade for them for this ''prom.'' One was $50 and the other $100. That's more than I've ever spent on a dress, but maybe it's worth it, being able to design my own dress and make it fit me perfectly. Should I do it? Both of their dresses could have easily been displayed on David's Bridal for on the high side of $200--or more. So should I? As nice as it is to think that I have all of my summer job money, and all of my money in general for this year, I do have to have a life after this, and that life will include college. But $100 for a handmade-for-me dress. Should I?
Okay, well, I think it's time I close this ramble, and pray that I can pull off this entry, soon. But my brain is full of cotton right now. And my bugbites of absurd proportions are bothering me, and I'm wondering if my internal-clock is normal enough for me to be able to go to bed in an hour or two and actually sleep. Lately that sleep thing has been pretty hard for me. I blame in on dance! Ha ha, I'm loving 3 hours of my 4.5-hour-a-day dance classes, but they're wiping me out! I finish tango every night but Sunday, I think, at 8:30, and by the time the movil (cab) gets me home, it's after 9. I'm so tired from all of the work, I eat, change, and crash on my bed, hoping for a good HBO movie while I brush my teeth. Then for whatever reason, I can't sleep! I'm soo exhausted though! Take the other day--Thursday? for example. I can't remember why it was so late, but my light was off by one, I was very much awake until at least 2, then I don't know when, but whenever my sister came home from working the night shift her relatively quiet footsteps woke me up (wasn't in a deep sleep) then I was in the fairly awake category again at 6am! I laid in bed wondering what to do, and at 6:45 got up to walk around the yard. My dad was up so I went inside and ate some pineapple, then went back to my room and managed to sleep from 8 till 10, when a phone call woke me up. Argh! That night I slept beautifully, but the night after I was again tossing and turning until at 3am I decided, if nothing else would, CNN in English would put me to sleep. Anyway, you see why I can't decide if I'll be able to sleep today. Oh, and even better, I've already slept a lot today, so though I'm tired, I'm betting it won't happen. Yeah, last night my parents had a party until 5am. I got home from the prom party at about a quarter to 3 (took forever and ever to get a cab!) and went to bed pretty much immediately. My alarm was set for 7:30 so I'd be up in time to prep for church. And up I got, and prepped, and walked over to the house to get some breakfast before my mom or dad drove me to church. Except they had had a party until 5am, and were still asleep. Even better, the house was still locked up, so no breakfast for me! There's a wicker sofa outside right now, because of the party, so I lay down, hoping they'd wake up in time to get me at least to Sunday school, but there was no sound from inside, and I fell asleep outside. I woke up sweaty, and decided to wait in my room. And Mama woke me up at 11:30, saying it was time to go to lunch. Yeah. Lame, I know. Then at the Resort after lunch, I fell asleep in the hammock. Then after the Resort back at home, I slept for almost another two hours. So will I be able to sleep tonight? I doubt it.
Anyway, I have to go. Mama wants the comp, and you'll be getting that promised post tomorrow I suppose.
Loves and kisses,
Erika

Thursday, November 13, 2008

*The Storm that Made me Smart*.....though smart may be too grand a word.

‘’I see a dinosaur!’’
‘’I see a horse. How do you say horse in English?’’
‘’Horse. I see a pearl necklace.’’
‘’Pretty. I see a plastic bag!’’ and my nine year old cousin, Maria Jose, pointed up. Sure enough, a black plastic bag was being pushed across the ever-changing sky. In about five minutes the heavens had gone from lightly cloud covered, like a typical Southeast Alaskan day, to a cotton-candy mixer spinning black sugar. Maria Jose and I saw the clouds on the horizon as we played at handstands and cartwheels in the grass at the pool complex my family frequents. She suggested I take pictures, so we grabbed my camera and climbed the stairs to the still-hot tile balcony—one of my favorite places at the resort. The view it offers is incredible. Straight ahead is the red tile roof of a changing room, and from there silhouettes of giant palm and flowery trees and buildings of every kind extend to the horizon. Then, to the right, you get a view of the pool, and its occupants. The other week, the balcony became a spy-base to check out the busload of Evangelical gringos. The left of the balcony shows trees and trees and trees. We laid back and stared up at the roiling mess of clouds until lighting flashed and thunder grumbled, and I became acutely aware of our position; the balcony made us some of the tallest objects in the area. I didn’t want to test my powers of lightening resistance, so we descended.
We returned to our family gathered in the familiar corner, and Maria Jose was whisked away by an aunt. Meanwhile, the rain decided it was tired of those fat, black clouds and decided to mix in the swimming pool instead. One minute occasional heavy drops splashed the cement and mango leaves, the next, it was a downpour. As soon as Mama nodded her permission, I was running across the resort to the grassy area next to the pool and restaurant. I stretched my ballet muscles and leaped across my green stage to an orchestra of thunder, lighting, and cars honking out in the road. My Olympic preparations began as I cartwheeled and backbended in the wet. I was completely soaked before I lay out on the basketball court. I couldn’t lay still for long though, because rain kept dropping in my nose and eyes. I felt like those, is it turkeys? who, when it rains, tilt their heads up until they drown in it. I loved it though.
The rain was still going strong after ten minutes, but I was a little more calm and skipped back to the overhang where my family still sat. Mama and Abuelita saw me and laughed, but insisted as soon as I came in from the rain that I shower and put on something dry. It seems that adults all over the world, except in Southeast Alaska, are sure that you’ll catch your death of a cold if you play in the rain and don’t dry off after. That wisdom is shared here at least. I laughed, and let them find me a towel and a dress, and while rinsing and drying off, I realized something. All my life I believed something about myself: that I was destined for a hot, dry place, where humidity and rain were only words found in books. I was wrong.
I don’t know if it was only in these last few months, or during the years of squishing in my shoes in Alaska, or the summer thunderstorms of Utah, or even back to my sticky, sweaty, wet birthplace of Japan, but somewhere in my lifetime, I became addicted to the wet. I rather convincingly told myself and others that my future was in Utah, if only because it was dry, and I loved dry heat. That’s not a lie; I do love low humidity, but I was wrong in saying that I hated it altogether. I, in fact, have no issue with humidity at all, so long as I have lots of clean, light weight clothes, and a cold shower everyday. I saw what my future could be like while dancing in that storm. I could live somewhere wet, and hot, and green. I never wanted to live in Hawaii because I thought it’d be too humid, but hey, I can handle that now. A whole other atmosphere has opened up to me, all because I danced in a rainstorm in Bolivia. Here’s the truth: I can be happy anywhere now. Alaska is cool, and sometimes I hate it, but I could be happy there. I could make do in Egypt. If my future were in England, I think I’d do just fine. I’m not limiting myself to just one climate now. I am versatile and strong and brave enough to handle all of them. Even if I can’t handle all of them, most of them are fantastic, and I love that knowledge. It’s amazing what you can learn from dancing in a rainstorm. I highly suggest you try it, you might learn something. Be careful though, if you’re not of the Southeast Alaskan breed, you may just catch your death of a cold if you don’t dry off after.

Monday, November 3, 2008

*Novelty*

The following is a continuation on Bolivian beauty, fashion, and general social lives of…us.

When Emily offered to take me to get my hair cut for the equivalent of twenty US dollars, I was a little shocked. That’s expensive! However, knowing her mother’s fashion connections (she’s the woman who got us into the Yanbal beauty thingy) and that the hair cutter person routinely cuts hair for models, I thought it was worth it. Perhaps there’s a flaw in my logic, but if he cuts hair for models, then he could cut my hair like a model’s, and I can pretend to look like a model. All that for only twenty US dollars! With that perspective how could I say no?
The following Saturday we were driven to the salon. Emily, Leah, and I were assigned a wash, cut, and style and were seated on a couch between robed women waiting for their highlights to cook, or getting their toenails buffed. We sat there on that couch and realized that this was the most professional haircut we were probably going to get. Ever. Everywhere, glamorous employees in uniforms and stilettos directed women to this stylist, that tanning bed, or that makeup station. The employees all wore white shirts and black slacks, and the majority of the patrons were dressed in neutrals, blacks and whites. I felt overly conspicuous in my blue shirt and green capris, and just plain gross in my sweaty ponytail. Even worse, Emily and Leah were quickly taken away to the shampoo station, and I was left to Spanish fashion magazines and employees asking questions in Spanish. Leah is the tongue in a situation like this: her Spanish is best, so I made do with hand signs and awkward yes or no questions.
Perhaps half an hour later I was finally guided to the shampoo station. My ponytail was wrestled out and with nary a word to me, thank heavens, a long spray of cool water washed over my scalp. I knew this place would be good, but as soon as the first drop of water pelted me, I knew it would be really, really good. Can you guess why? Because the water was cool. It felt like the water racing down a slide at Raging Waters when you first lay back after a half hour baking in the sun and munching curly fries. It was rejuvenating in the crazy Bolivian heat. Even better, the woman washing my hair didn’t ask if it was the right temperature. She knew. With all of her professional mind reading, or possibly just not caring, she knew that I needed a cold wash. Her strong fingers worked through my thick tangle, and that scalp ache associated with a pony tail disappeared.
Later, with a towel turban, I was left again on the couch to await the cut. I waited, and waited, and waited. Finally, after rereading Cosmos from 2006 I was led to the cutting chair. He, the hair cutter, strode down the hall, all business, and started fingering my hair. ‘’Do you speak Spanish?’’ he asked me in English. I answered that yes, I speak a little Spanish, and he directed the next two sentences to me in English. Actually, it was only one sentence: ‘’Do you like your hair long?’’ I answered yes, but my bangs are a disaster. That was all. He tilted my head down, combed my hair over my eyes and attacked me with a spray bottle of water, and a hand full of condition. I could only watch as two and three inch pieces of my hair fell onto my black cape. In the space of about three minutes my hair was thinned. I wasn’t expecting this, as just about every stylist I’ve ever gone to has told me that thick hair is a gift, and she didn’t want to ruin it with layer. I was layered, I was given more sweeping bangs, and I was led out to the couch. I had taken five minutes of the master’s time, and came out with different hair.
We were all supposed to get our hair styled as well, but after a half hour of waiting with no word from stylists, even when we asked, we paid and left. Really, our hair was almost dry anyway.
What is the difference between my hair cut there, and the ones I grew up with, in my bath room, or someone’s basement-gone-salon? Honestly, I think it was only the employees’ I-don’t-care attitude. For the first time I was able to say, ''Do what you think will look best.’’ Wait, I didn’t even say it. He just did that. Anywhere else, the cutter tells me she’s worried that I won’t like it. So while I enjoyed getting my hair cut very much, I think I enjoyed it solely for the novelty: I’m getting a very professional haircut, instead of just a normal professional haircut. It also helped that I was getting it in Bolivia, where everything’s a novelty.